by Isobel Carr
Ivo stalked after them, senses snapping with anger, on the verge of simply strangling the viscount as he’d like to have strangled the man who was now dead. Only steps ahead of him, they emerged from the darkened walk and into the crowded grove where Frampton’s soprano was performing.
George had lost her mask during her flight and her domino trailed behind her like the wings of a fabled beast. The viscount shouldered his way through the mob, pressing forward towards their box. They came to a halt when they encountered Lady Morpeth, and St Audley gave way as George was enfolded into the countess’s protective embrace.
Ivo paused, the crowd swirling about him: loud, raucous, pulsing with energy and life. St Audley trailed behind the women as Victoria led George back towards their supper box, and they momentarily disappeared from sight. Clenching his teeth, Ivo pushed his way through the crowd, heedless of the dirty looks from those trying to listen to the singer.
Rattled, George wrapped her domino about her, clutched it to her, tried to disappear into its folds. She could hear Lyon’s voice echoing in her head. He’d have called her a stupid little fool. She could almost hear the exact inflection he’d use. He’d have liked the earl, damn it all.
Lyon would have been horrified about all the time she’d wasted. She’d needed a good shaking. Needed it badly. And now here was Dauntry arrived to turn her world topsy-turvy.
She couldn’t keep putting him off. He’d appeared as though she’d conjured him up from the darkness. Kissed her like some demon lover. Saved her again…She allowed St Audley to press a glass of steaming hot punch into her icy hands. Her chest felt hollow. Her eyes burnt, unshed tears pushing for release.
She’d almost died. He’d almost died. That would have been infinitely worse. Loath as she was to admit to the emotion, she loved him. Marriage to Dauntry would be a risk, might just be an unmitigated disaster. They’d likely fight—and frequently. But she wanted him, and she wasn’t going to get him on any other terms. She only had to say one simple word to claim both him and the life he offered. One word. And she couldn’t seem to say it.
His grandfather and past scandals be damned. The world owed her a little bit of happiness. A little joy. She’d had enough losses and sorrows. Was she really prepared to allow Dauntry to be one more?
Frustrated, she blinked back the tears that threatened and swallowed as much of the punch as she could take in a single gulp. Giddiness and panic overwhelmed her. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Her heart was racing, and her fingers tingling, almost numb.
She actually felt faint. She never felt faint!
Lyon would be ashamed of her. She was ashamed of herself. Dauntry’s stricken face swam before her, blotting out the manic, predatory expression in Valy’s eyes when he’d touched her.
The press of the crowd and the din of the musicians pushed in on her, making her head swim. She was safe. She was free. And all she wanted to do was collapse in a heap and cry.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
It is impossible to escape the news that the Lady Corinthian appears to have joined the Turk’s harem. It is a sad day for Englishmen everywhere…
Tête-à-Tête, 13 February 1789
Ivo strode past Lord Cardross, who eyed him knowingly but forbore to step between him and his quarry. George was seated, staring quietly at her hands while Lady Morpeth hovered over her, glaring at everyone like a swan guarding its signet. St Audley paced at the back of the box, expression dark as a storm cloud.
‘Out!’ Ivo barked, ignoring the viscount’s threatening stance.
The countess shot him a dismissive, burning glance.
When she failed to give way, Ivo snarled and pushed past her. Without a word he hauled George up out of her chair and tossed her up and over his shoulder. He shoved the viscount back with his free arm, sending him sprawling into the chairs, then turned and marched out of the box, making for the gates.
He was done with this.
Done with George’s indecision.
Done with his own.
They were leaving. Now. He wasn’t going to propose again. Nor was he going to allow her to prevaricate. She wouldn’t be allowed any avenue of escape, not if he had to kidnap her and flee for the border this very night.
She was his, damn it. She was his, and he was hers. Completely and utterly hers.
Not causing a scene be damned. His grandfather be damned. Her bloody bulldogs be damned.
He pushed past a startled woman in a purple domino and shouldered aside her escort, deaf to their remonstrations. George rode his shoulder, oddly quiescent. Only the tension of her spine alerted him that should his grip slacken she’d be off and running like a doe pursued by hounds.
George watched the crowd at Vauxhall watching her. Watching them. Dauntry’s shoulder was hard against her hips, muscles rolling under the silk of his coat. His hands were locked about her thighs, holding her fast. One side of her hoops had collapsed between her hip and his head.
They must present quite a sight.
He was making a scene that would not soon be forgotten. A wonderful scene. A glorious on-dit for the scandalmongers.
Something that would overrun the gossip surrounding a well-known French aristocrat being found murdered in the garden, or floating in the Thames, which was far more likely given her godfather’s maddening efficiency and the close proximity of the river.
Over the heads of the crowd she saw their friends in hot pursuit and began to laugh, the sound bubbling up out of her uncontrollably. A few of them actually looked concerned as they wove through the milling crowd. As if Dauntry were far more dangerous than her highwayman had been.
She raised her head, bracing her hands on Dauntry’s back. He’d lost his hair ribbon, as well as his domino and mask. Dark curls spilt over his shoulders, twisted down his back. There was not a chance that most of the sea of revellers didn’t recognize her. Didn’t recognize them.
She could almost feel the gossip swirling around them like midges on a hot summer night. The entire ton would be buzzing with it by morning. But, as she’d be the Countess of Somercote before she was likely to see any of them again, it really didn’t matter.
Cynical and wrong as it might be, a marriage and a title would sweep this all away. Make it nothing more than a mildly amusing story. Gossip was only truly savoury when attached to scandal.
Dauntry marched straight out the gates, past the stunned and titillated faces of the bon ton, and down the street to the top of the Vauxhall Stairs. He slung her down off his shoulder and set her on her feet, one hand still locked about her arm, pressing down on bruises he wasn’t aware of. George forced herself not to flinch. He wouldn’t forgive himself if she complained, if he knew.
‘Well, curst Katharina?’ He let go of her, raising one hand to brush a curl away from her eyes. He swept it back, fingers tracing the curve of her ear, trailing down her neck.
‘Yes, Petruchio?’
‘Yes—the very word I’ve been waiting for.’ He bent his head and kissed her again, his eager hands locking her to him.
George pressed close, twined her hands in his loose hair, and kissed him back.
A few houses up, Brimstone stopped to watch George and her bedevilled suitor. The sound of running feet echoed loudly in the dark. Shouts and shrill laughter spilt out of the gardens.
‘Well?’ Bennett inquired as he and Morpeth caught up with him. ‘Is he kissing her or beating her?’
‘Would it make any difference?’ St Audley said skidded to a stop.
Brimstone shot his cuffs and turned back towards the gardens, suddenly overcome with thirst. He jostled the viscount and pushed him back towards the garden. There was nothing more boring than happily united lovers.
Epilogue
Barton Court, August 1793
Curled up indecorously in her favourite chair, George watched two-year-old Dysart play with his wooden horses. Caesar, a look of long suffering on his greying face, was being put to use as the hill Dy’s chargers were run
ning up and down.
The distinct sound of a carriage rolling along the gravel drive—the crackle of wheels shifting rock, the steady gait of the team—eased its way in through the open window, grew louder as the clock ticked on the mantel and the birds chirped outside in the warmth of the afternoon.
Dy’s head snapped up and one of his beloved chargers fell un-noted to the carpet. He ran to the window, the skirts of his dress flapping. George stood and shook out her gown, peeling her shift away from her damp skin. She scooped up her son and held him so he could peer out the open window.
‘Our guest is arriving. Shall we go and greet him?’
Dy nodded, dark curls bobbing. He clutched his favourite horse to his chest.
With her son balanced on her hip and Caesar trailing along beside her, George made her way down the main stairs to the entrance hall.
The portrait of Ivo’s father smiled down upon her as she passed it. As did the one of her father, and those of past Dauntrys too numerous to count.
Ivo had gone to town to meet with his solicitor, and George had sent a long overdue invitation to Ashcombe Park. She hadn’t been sure the marquess would come, but something had to be done. Someone had to swallow their pride…and this time around it had been her. The estrangement between her husband and his family had gone on long enough.
The front door was thrown open by the butler and the marquess appeared in the open doorway, backlit by the afternoon sky. A tall, steady figure for all that he was well into his eighties.
Caesar’s hackles went up and George shushed him, running a hand down his back to smooth the hair back into place. She snapped her fingers and the dog obediently prostrated himself on the floor.
Lord Tregaron stepped inside, wig precisely set, as if he’d just stepped from the hands of his valet, not from a carriage after a jolting thirty-mile drive. He leaned upon the elegant walking stick clutched in his right hand a bit more than she remembered, but not so much that a casual observer would notice.
‘Do you have Somercote trained as well as that beast?’
George bit the inside of her lip to keep from smiling. The old man was very much as she remembered him from their few, brief encounters. Haughty. Angry. Like a cat rubbed the wrong way.
‘Well, girl?’ His bushy brows rose as he tipped his head back and glared down at her from his superior height. His cocoa-brown eyes, exactly like his grandson’s, bored into her.
‘I’m wondering how to answer you, my lord. If I say yes, you’ll think your grandson a fool. If I say no, you’ll think me one.’
The old man gave a bark of laughter and stripped off his linen surtout, handing the full-skirted coat over to the butler, along with his hat and gloves. ‘That my heir?’
George glanced at Dysart and bucked him up farther on her hip, getting her arm under him. Dysart looked back at her uncertainly, his free hand clinging to the front of her gown, chubby fingers soft against her skin.
‘I told that stubborn grandson of mine all would be forgiven when he presented me with an heir.’
The marquess’s gruff tone put her forcibly in mind of her husband when he knew he was in the wrong but was loath to apologize. A family trait, that. Or, perhaps, simply a masculine one. Her own father had been much the same.
‘I doubt that my husband feels in need of forgiveness. But if you’d like to meet your great-grandson, I suggest you follow me to the sitting room.’ She turned and crossed the hall, not looking back to see if the marquess was following.
Dysart twisted in her arms to face back over her shoulder. ‘I have a horse.’
‘So you do,’ the marquess’s voice sounded close behind her. ‘Do you have him in the saddle yet, girl? As I remember, one of your few accomplishments was your seat.’
George smiled, not trusting herself to respond with anything but a peal of laughter. It wasn’t a compliment, but for the marquess it was damned close. She’d have him eating out of her hand by the time Ivo returned.
Ivo tossed Cobweb’s reins to a groom and vaulted from the saddle. He eyed the large carriage squatting in the middle of the stable block with misgiving. The Tregaron arms emblazoned on the door panel left him in no doubt of who was paying a visit.
How had the old man known when he’d be away? If he’d upset George in any way…Ivo clenched his teeth and stalked towards the house, picturing the dramatic scene that no doubt awaited him inside.
Gravel churned beneath his boots, a vicious grinding that gave him a tingle of perverse pleasure. When he reached the house a nervous-looking footman directed him to his wife’s sitting room. He’d be lucky if George had only cracked the marquess on the head with a decanter.
He threw open the door to the large, west-facing salon and stood staring dumbly at the quietly domestic scene unfolding inside. There was a loaded tea tray, remarkably intact, on the table next to George. The marquess was dangling his quizzing glass in front of Dysart, like a child playing with a kitten and a string.
His grandfather looked up, but the old man gave no other outward sign of surprise. George raised her brows ever so slightly, one corner of her mouth curling up with just a hint of a mischief-making smile.
Dysart dropped the marquess’s quizzing glass and ran shrieking towards him. Ivo stepped into the room and scooped him up to keep him away from his mud-splashed boots.
‘No need to stand there, my boy.’
Ivo held back the retort that came to mind and carried his son back into the room. The moment he sat, Dysart squirmed down and darted to the marquess to reclaim the quizzing glass.
‘Your wife and I were just discussing her upcoming house party.’ The old man reached out one hand to adjust the skirt of Dy’s dress. ‘I was thinking of sending my carriage to fetch your mother.’
Ivo glanced at George. She cocked her head with what looked like coquettish sweetness. He knew the smile that lurked at the corner of her mouth all too well to be fooled. It was pure triumph.
He relaxed into the settee and flung out one arm so he could twine his fingers into George’s curls. Lord, he loved his beguiling witch of a wife.
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Please continue for a sample of book two in the No Rules for Rogue’s Series, SCANDAL INCARNATE, Brimstone and Imogen’s story.
Scandal Incarnate
Book Two: No Rules for Rogues
The last thing the Portrait Divorcée needs is to have her name connected to that of the equally infamous Gabriel Angelstone. But the infuriating rake has made it very clear that he’s bent on nothing less than her complete surrender…
Chapter One
The Angelstone Turk would appear to have given his opera dancer her congé. We eagerly await the impending melee amongst those desirous of taking his place…
Tête-à-Tête, 11 August 1789
He had her.
Gabriel Angelstone slid his hands around the countess’s waist and pulled her back against him. God he’d missed her. Childhood friend, first love, best friend. She’d been the cynosure of his world and the sad truth was that without her, he was bored.
Bored with drinking. Bored with gaming. Bored with whoring. Bored with London. And when one was bored with London, one was bored with life. No truer words had ever been spoken.
She gasped and went stiff, sent her basket tumbling to the ground, and rammed him hard in the ribs with one sharp elbow. Gabriel let go of her immediately.
What in hell was wrong with her?
He was early, by a full day, but that was hardly unusual. What was a day or two between friends?
&nbs
p; She spun around, skirts flying out, gravel churning underfoot, and backed away from him. She stopped only when her heels hit the edge of the fountain and threw out a hand to steady herself, tense as a cornered doe.
Staring up at him from under the most ridiculous portrait hat he’d ever seen was a face that clearly wasn’t Georgianna’s. Not George’s, but oddly familiar all the same. Like a melody once heard in passing. Memory stirred, but refused to wake.
Little audible pops accompanied the greedy frenzy of the carp as they sucked up the bread crumbs she’d just scattered over the water, loud even over the merry splash of the fountain. Gabriel smiled, swept off his hat, and bowed.
His unknown victim watched him warily through large blue-grey eyes, thickly rimmed with sooty lashes the same color as her mass of spiral curls. She had a wide mouth; the top lip fuller than the bottom one. It should have looked luscious, well kissed, seductive, but at that exact moment her lips were pursed. Disapproving. A little downward curl marred their edges. As she studied him, she straightened, shoulders back, chest thrust out. Her eyes took on a decidedly flinty edge.
His garden nymph had a temper…how delightful.
Imogen stared at the man who’d just accosted her, struggling to keep her mouth from dropping open. He was undoubtedly one of the countess’s friends. It was common knowledge Lady Somercote came from a wild set. But guests weren’t due to arrive for at least another day or two.
As the countess’s titular companion, she’d been busy assisting with all the tasks no one had time for in the rush to finish the party preparations. Simple things: feeding the fish in the maze, taking the countess’s dog for a walk, delivering a jar of pig’s feet jelly to the parsonage. Servant-stuff really, but they were busy too. Helping out with such tasks was little enough considering all the Somercotes had done for her.
